Arrows and Traps
by Kallie49
Summary: Most people know to leave the captain alone when he's this grumpy. The doctor, naturally, does not. P/C.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: Thanks to digitalfletch for the prompt on this one! The story idea has been germinating for an absurdly long time, but I finally managed to break through an impasse, so here is the modest result. One other note: I have always had a beef with Picard's canonical age on the show, so a handful of years will be taken off here, in case anyone cares to dispute that particular detail when it arises. Feedback always welcome.

#-#-#

By all indications, the captain of the _Enterprise_ was doing his level best to avoid interacting with his CMO. This was, admittedly, made more difficult by the fact that she was standing directly in front of him on the bridge.

A circumstance she'd no doubt intended.

He suppressed a sigh and focused pointedly on the PADD in his hand, stretching out a lengthy pause. He could sense other bridge officers starting to shift uncomfortably around him. She, on the other hand, remained entirely unruffled. "Captain?" she prompted again.

"Hmm? Yes, of course, Doctor. Proceed." Anyone else would have taken the muttered consent as the curt dismissal it was intended to be, and beat a hasty retreat from his evident annoyance...but then again, Beverly Crusher wasn't anyone else, was she?

Damn the woman.

"Thank you, Captain." After a beat, she added, almost as an afterthought, "Oh, and sir, just as a reminder, I never heard back from you about the concert in Ten-Forward at 1900."

At the studiously offhand comment, Jean-Luc Picard finally looked up with sharp eyes, meeting her placid blue ones. This was, of course, the entire reason she'd come, and now he could not avoid it. He didn't have any valid reason _not_ to go, and she knew it, and now she had him pinned like a Denobulan wingbug. How she had managed to expertly outmaneuver him was...not actually much of a mystery, he admitted with a mental grimace, given how well she knew him—and how much less she, out of every other person on board, was intimidated by his rank or authority. The only course open to him now was to escape with as little commitment as possible.

"Very well," he replied at last. "Just as a _reminder_ , however, I anticipate there might be a conflict."

"Of course. Just let me know." The woman was entirely too smug, he decided, and far too heedless of the attention she attracted on the bridge. But at least she was now content to take her leave.

Picard exhaled with the closing of the lift doors and attempted to refocus on his PADD, before finally clenching it in his fist and rising in a swift motion. "Number One, I'll be in my ready room. Mr. Worf, would you please join me?"

Maintaining a rigid posture as he took his seat, Picard laid the PADD down deliberately and regarded the Klingon standing at attention opposite his desk. He was fairly certain the chamber music concert was, in fact, scheduled for this evening...but he wouldn't put anything past the doctor after the way she'd just ambushed him. He trusted, though, that any staff conspiracy could not be _too_ vast. Could it?

"Lieutenant. You would not happen to be aware of any events arranged for...my birthday?"

There was, reassuringly, no trace of amusement on his security chief's face. "No, sir."

He grimaced. "I know that Commander Riker and the doctor in particular have been known to plan certain surprises."

"Yes, sir. I had reason to suspect they were planning something for my own birthday last month. However, Counselor Troi persuaded them otherwise. Perhaps they realized it would not be a welcome surprise."

"Indeed." But would the counselor make a similar entreaty on his own behalf? Would Beverly be likely to be dissuaded even if she did? He scowled. "Thank you, Mr. Worf. That will be all."


	2. Chapter 2

Picard arrived precisely five minutes before the scheduled event. He found Beverly waiting, unexpectedly, outside Ten-Forward, dressed in a flattering olive green wrap dress and low-heeled shoes that brought her directly to his height. On another night he might have been distracted by her attire, but now he only narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the lounge windows behind her for any sort of assembled group. Failing to see anything unusual, he straightened his shoulders to brace for whatever awaited, hoping that it was, in fact, only Telemann and Vivaldi as promised. It wasn't as though he didn't enjoy attending such performances with her, after all, as had become a regular occurrence since her return to the ship...it was that he simply didn't trust her. Not today, at any rate.

If Beverly noted his demeanor or the fact that he was still dressed in uniform, she didn't show it. Her smile, instead, appeared warm and assured—though he imagined there was still some mischief contained there. "Captain, I'm so glad you could make it."

He nodded warily. "Thank you for the invitation. Well. Shall we?" He started toward the doors with a gesture… but she stood still, blocking the way. He frowned as he nearly bumped into her. "Doctor?"

Her smile didn't waver. "I actually have Holodeck 5 reserved," she said. "Just down the corridor. I thought we could head there instead."

 _Of all the_ — "The _holodeck_?" he repeated testily. "Doctor—" He stopped and lowered his voice as two crew members scooted past them in sudden haste. "Beverly. You invited me to a concert. I am not interested in going to the holodeck, where you most likely have some sort of _celebration_ planned that I am entirely indisposed towards. As you should well know."

Blithely refusing to cower, Beverly raised an eyebrow at him. "Jean-Luc, you are really being quite grouchy for someone who should be having a nice day," she admonished mildly. "In any case, can't you give me the benefit of the doubt?"

"I can't see why I should, given how you've maneuvered me here under false pretenses."

At his implacable stare, she finally sighed and let her posture sag a bit. "All right, all right. I apologize. I know that you don't want any acknowledgement of your birthday today. But I did plan something and I do think you'll like it. I just thought only the concert might get you out of your quarters." She held out an open palm and smiled again, hopefully. "Trust me? Please?"

Picard would have been unmoved if it were anyone else. But despite all his suspicion and irritation, she _seemed_ to be sincere this time. And the truth was that he always _did_ seem to have a hard time denying her... "Blast," he muttered. "All right, Beverly. The holodeck it is."


	3. Chapter 3

Minus the ordinary yellow grid, the holodeck was a black room, empty save for two rather weathered wooden chairs placed in front of an unadorned stage. The floor creaked as if it were made of old boards.

Picard scanned the room suspiciously before easing into the seat beside Beverly. Catching his eye, she shook her head ruefully at him, auburn hair falling over one shoulder. "Jean-Luc, I promise there is no one else here. You can relax."

He nodded in grudging acknowledgement. "So it would seem. Are we here for one of your productions, then?"

Beverly clasped her hands and gracefully stretched out her arms in front of her. "No, not one of mine this time. Are you familiar with Aditya Anand?"

"Yes, of course—the twenty-second-century director who used new holotechnology to stage immersive productions of Shakespeare. Quite well done," Picard remembered, enthusiasm starting to seep into his voice despite himself. "I saw two of his many years ago at a festival in San Francisco— _Richard II_ and _Julius Caesar_."

She turned in her seat to face him better, olive skirt falling a bit above her knees. "Well, I thought you might like to skip bloody battles and murders for this evening, so I picked something lighter."

"Oh?"

She waited for a perfectly timed beat, then deadpanned, " _Macbeth."_

He laughed, catching the spark in her blue eyes, and found himself warming up to the idea of an evening a bit more pleasant than he'd anticipated. Perhaps— _perhaps,_ he allowed—he should not have been so skeptical of her plans after all.

Relaxing now back into his own seat, which was rather more comfortable than it looked, Picard adopted a grave tone. "I must question your conception of 'lighter' subject matter, Doctor."

She grinned. "Actually, it's _Much Ado About Nothing_. Original Delhi cast, 2185, with Anand as Leonato. I found the recordings in some early-Federation archives and I thought you might like it."

"I might, indeed," he admitted.

"Perfect." At his nod of assent, Beverly directed the computer to begin, and the monochrome theatre set dissolved into an explosion of color and sound. The wooden flooring under their feet transformed into a rich green lawn, while a blazing sun shone down on the whitewashed columns and facade of an elegant estate. The faint smells of cumin and cardamom wafted from somewhere just out of sight. Hearing a voice from behind them, Picard turned to see two young, dark-haired women in bright orange and pink saris, presumably Beatrice and Hero, following Leonato around their seats to speak to the messenger who had appeared in front of them in the courtyard.

The play proceeded with an array of seamless set changes around the two audience members, varying their viewpoints so that they alternately had cozy spots from which to spy on conspirators; ideal seats at the bustling center of the masquerade; and front row placement at both the ill-fated wedding and the happier concluding ones. Picard had, of course, play-acted in several holodeck programs himself, but being a spectator to a familiar play, as the action fully surrounded him, was equally thrilling—not least as he appreciated the skill of this particular cast and the technical achievement of the director from centuries earlier. The entire experience was as intimate as it was possible to create for an audience without participating in it directly.

He was so taken with the performance that it jarred him occasionally to realize he was not enjoying it alone, but with Beverly. More than once, as he mouthed familiar words—

 _but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come into my grace_ —

he acutely felt her warmth beside him and almost unwittingly found his gaze pulled towards her. Over the past year he had comfortably attended quite a few concerts with her in Ten-Forward and they had even shared tea a handful of times, but it was altogether less common to spend personal time together in this manner, whatever name one might ascribe to it. He wasn't sure whether to be discomfited by or accepting of this intimacy.

— _having so swift and excellent a wit as she is prized to have—_

A moment's contact sent a jolt through him, as she brushed against his shoulder while leaning to see past him, before shifting slightly away. He sighed inwardly. The truth was that not only was he accepting of it, he increasingly desired more of this closeness. No matter how fierce their disagreements or how utterly maddening she could be, he had always been drawn to her: her liveliness, her intelligence, her beauty. He still tried, of course, out of years-long habit, to keep her at bay.

To judge by present circumstances, he clearly wasn't trying hard enough.

After the virtual cast had taken its bow, to the small audience's applause, it vanished from view. Rather than reverting to the black box theatre, however, the scenery remained, shifting subtly to show an open-air restaurant a short distance away from the estate: Beverly's modification to the original program, he presumed. The intervening gardens were lit with the golden cast of fading daylight.

Beverly rose to stretch, bending her knees in some type of plié, then turned expectantly towards him. Her cheeks, he saw, were the same rose color as her lips, flushed with laughter from the play's happy end. "That was wonderful. I hadn't actually seen all of it before setting it up for us."

"Yes, it was. One of the better stagings I have seen of this play. Thank you." Picard fell into step beside her, moving at an unhurried pace along a stone path cutting through the gardens. The setting sun cast long shadows in front of them, but the air was still agreeably warm. "Perhaps you could try your own hand at directing it sometime?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," she said with a wave of one hand. "I don't feel qualified to take on Shakespeare. And besides, some of the characters really strain credulity in this one. Frankly, his portrayal of women borders on archaic."

Picard paused. "It is an eight hundred year old play. In the context of the time period—"

Beverly noticed his slight frown and shook her head, chuckling. "You don't need to be defensive about Shakespeare, Jean-Luc. I'm not saying it's not entertaining. A lot of it does hold up, just not _all_ of it." Arriving at their destination, they wound their way towards a cozy square table already set with two place settings, two bone china teapots, and small plates of confections to share. "Well, in any event. It might be getting a bit late now, but—would you care for dessert?"

He relaxed again and inclined his head graciously, settling into a wrought iron chair across from her. Warm artificial lights began to glow around the patio as the sun sank below the holographic horizon. "Yes, I'd be delighted."

At this, a sudden teasing glint appeared in her eyes, and almost before he could wonder at it, she pounced. "'Delighted'?" she echoed, raising one hand to her chest and feigning surprise. "But, Jean-Luc, you were in such a _terrible_ mood earlier."

Not exactly moved to sheepishness, the captain drew a breath to offer some kind of objection, but then decided discretion was the better part of valor: she clearly wasn't finished yet.

Never one to let a good rant get in the way of good food, Beverly picked up a knife and fork and started tucking into the gulab jamun on the plate in front of her with just about as much enthusiasm, he judged, as her ribbing of him. "It was, let's see, something about it being your birthday—a _terrible_ event, made even worse by your _terribly_ impertinent chief medical officer badgering you into _attending a play_. Of all things." She grinned at him around a mouthful of pastry.

 _I hear how I am censured..._ One dark eyebrow rose in amusement as he poured each of them some tea. By the scents, it appeared it was Earl Grey for him, chai for her. "I'm sure it wasn't as bad as all of that."

She shook her head disbelievingly and stabbed her fork in his general direction. "Oh, it most definitely was, Jean-Luc. You make it very difficult sometimes." She glanced down at his uniform as if contemplating whether to cite to that particular evidence of his stubbornness, but continued instead, "I thought you might have had me hauled off the bridge to the brig earlier today."

He shot her a wry look, but didn't deny it. "Beverly, I simply do not wish to make a production out of this day."

"So, I didn't make it a production." She paused to sample another dish, this one drizzled with syrup and pistachios. "Oh, try the kulfi, it's very sweet."

"You thought about it," he objected, while obligingly taking a taste of the frozen dessert. "Yes, that is excellent."

"Have the rest. And of course I thought about it," she said easily. "But, Jean-Luc, just because I throw a surprise party for Will Riker doesn't mean I wouldn't respect _your_ wishes."

Brought up short by this, Picard set down his spoon and glanced up. "I—didn't expect that you would," he admitted. "Perhaps I was in error."

"Perhaps?" Her eyes twinkled as she touched a napkin to the corner of her lips.

Considering his earlier demeanor again, he decided that he did feel somewhat sheepish after all. He held up one hand. "All right. I was in error with respect to my assumptions about your plans."

Beverly accepted the acknowledgement with a gracious nod. "Why, thank you, Captain."

"But I had not planned—nor desired—to do anything for this day," he added. He didn't mean to sound irritable again, as in truth he wasn't, but he felt some need to explain further. "I would much rather it pass as any other day."

She tilted her head, somewhat bemused now that he was continuing to press the point. "Why? Birthdays are important, Jean-Luc."

He cupped the mug of tea in his hands and shook his head. "I am fifty-three. It's hardly a milestone. I feel no need to mark the occasion with any particular ceremony or to engage in maudlin reflections on the passage of time."

Beverly sighed and sat back in her chair, folding her slender arms and regarding him thoughtfully. "It doesn't have to be a _milestone_ , Jean-Luc—it's just your birthday. Sometimes it's about spending time with friends, you know, with nothing excessive, or maudlin, about it." Her expression was so warm that he felt the grim mood that had begun to take hold again lift somewhat. He admitted to himself that one reason he might feel so indisposed towards birthdays was that frequently there was no one to observe them with, even in appropriately modest fashion.

But she was there, wasn't she? And she'd taken it upon herself to make sure he knew it.

"So despite the fact that it apparently represents an imposition to you," she was continuing, "I wanted to let you know at least _one_ of your friends noticed today." She picked up her mug of tea and raised it to him. "Happy birthday, Jean-Luc."

He took a sip from his own mug and returned her smile appreciatively. "Thank you, Beverly." He cleared his throat. "I must admit, this is...the nicest birthday I have spent in some years."

"You're very welcome. I'm glad you had a good time—in spite of yourself." The night air was turning noticeably cooler, but her eyes were still lively with warmth. "You deserve it."

"I am not at all convinced that I do. But it was very nice of you to think so." His smile turned wry as he added pointedly, "I was _delighted_ to be here."

Beverly laughed. "Then maybe we can do this again sometime." By unspoken agreement they each finished their drinks, placed napkins on the table, and stood to leave. She moved around the table and then, unexpectedly, leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. He knew, of course, that there was no deeper significance to it—

 _truly, but in friendly recompense—_

but found himself savoring it just the same. He smiled and then cleared his throat again.

"Computer, end program."


End file.
